Mrs. Forgetful Strikes Again

I just spent 15 minutes looking for my coffee. Good thing stuff like this doesn't scare me or send me running to the doctor for an MRI and some of that medicine I give people who are forgetful...you know the name of it...yeah, that stuff...begins with an A...never mind, I'll think of it later.

Anyhow, I'm not worried because I've always been forgetful. When I was a kid it was because I had my "head in the clouds". When I was a youngER woman it was because I was sleep deprived. One of Ms A's kids nicknamed me Mrs. Forgetful one afternoon I kept missing a turn into a parking lot at Chuckie Cheese. He kept chanting: "Mrs. Forgetful Strikes Again!" each time I missed the entrance to the stupid pizza place. That was more divine interverntion than cognitive deficit so I didn't have to be exposed to the weird plushies and bad pizza. But I digress...

Aricept…yeah that’s it.

What was I writing about? Oh yeah, being forgetful. The other day I couldn't remember how to perform a simple math operation involving decimal points and percentages. That's just sad. Especially since I remembered Forgetful Jones was forgetting his horse Buster before I even reviewed the video. And I know all the words to "I Think I Love You" and "Brandy".

Which leads me on this tangent; I wonder what it's going to be like in nursing homes when everyone there grew up not on the rowdy sounds of Glenn Miller's swing music but rather Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Freebird".

Will I be the old woman in the back of the day room, pantomime lighter hoisted high in the air, swaying back and forth to music only I can hear, chanting the battle cry of 1978? "Freebird! Freebird"

God I hope so.

The Amazing Invisible Woman

Next Day
Moving from Cheer to Joy, from Joy to All,
I take a box
And add it to my wild rice, my Cornish game hens.
The slacked or shorted, basketed, identical
Food-gathering flocks
Are selves I overlook. Wisdom, said William James,

Is learning what to overlook. And I am wise
If that is wisdom.
Yet somehow, as I buy All from these shelves
And the boy takes it to my station wagon,
What I've become
Troubles me even if I shut my eyes.

When I was young and miserable and pretty
And poor, I'd wish
What all girls wish: to have a husband,
A house and children. Now that I'm old, my wish
Is womanish:
That the boy putting groceries in my car

See me. It bewilders me he doesn't see me.
For so many years
I was good enough to eat: the world looked at me
And its mouth watered. How often they have undressed me,
The eyes of strangers!
And, holding their flesh within my flesh, their vile

Imaginings within my imagining,
I too have taken
The chance of life. Now the boy pats my dog
And we start home. Now I am good.
The last mistaken,
Ecstatic, accidental bliss, the blind

Happiness that, bursting, leaves upon the palm
Some soap and water--
It was so long ago, back in some Gay
Twenties, Nineties, I don't know . . . Today I miss
My lovely daughter
Away at school, my sons away at school,

My husband away at work--I wish for them.
The dog, the maid,
And I go through the sure unvarying days
At home in them. As I look at my life,
I am afraid
Only that it will change, as I am changing:

I am afraid, this morning, of my face.
It looks at me
From the rear-view mirror, with the eyes I hate,
The smile I hate. Its plain, lined look
Of gray discovery
Repeats to me: "You're old." That's all, I'm old.

And yet I'm afraid, as I was at the funeral
I went to yesterday.
My friend's cold made-up face, granite among its flowers,
Her undressed, operated-on, dressed body
Were my face and body.
As I think of her and I hear her telling me

How young I seem; I am exceptional;
I think of all I have.
But really no one is exceptional,
No one has anything, I'm anybody,
I stand beside my grave
Confused with my life, that is commonplace and solitary

--Randell Jarrell

“True Confessions: sometimes I'm so envious of certain people and certain things that it becomes a physical ache and presence in my body that threatens to choke me. Just sayin'.”

That was a status update I saw on Face book a few weeks ago and I boy oh boy do I understand this sentiment. My envy is pretty free floating but it’s usually focused in one direction and it pains me to admit I’m usually envious of younger women. Because I’m deep--like a mud puddle--and a living breathing archetype: Crone hates the Maiden. Ok, I don’t “hate” the maiden but I certainly wish--at times--I was the maiden again. I also wish I could be content with the “wisdom” and “knowledge” and “experience” being in the middle of middle-age has given me. But I’m not. I’m not proud of the crow’s feet around my eyes, the lines in my forehead, or the sagging flesh threatening to take over my entire body. I’m also acutely aware of just how invisible I’ve become. NOT that I was one of those young women who turned heads no matter where she was. I’m fully aware I appealed to people who liked a certain type of woman: not classically pretty but a little exotic and well turned out. At the same time, I don’t want to be one of those pitiful over blonde, over tanned, over dressed, cartoonish women who remind me of Blanche Dubois, one of the saddest middle-aged women in 20th Century literature. (well ok, Rabbit’s wife was sad too but that’s because she didn’t cap his ass but that’s another subject for another day) Whenever I find myself longing for my youth and in danger of becoming a caricature of Blanche I am reminded of this poem and the second saddest woman in 20th Century literature.

Jarrell was more known for his war poems describing WWII and wrestling with the futility of death during war. This poem, written late in his life, is uncanny in its description of what it is like to be a middle-aged woman. What’s ironic, is Jarrell was commenting more about alienation and isolation inflicted upon everyone post war, rather than meditating on what it must be like to be a fifty-something year old woman grasping for her youth. The first time I read it I was at the ripe old age of 32 and it scared me to think I might feel like this woman someday. Someday has arrived and I can fully relate to the narrator and her gray lined smile. Fortunately, I don’t feel my life is commonplace, confusing or solitary. But at times I do long for my youth and the time when: the world looked at me and its mouth watered. How often they have undressed me, the eyes of strangers! And, holding their flesh within my flesh, their vile Imaginings within my imagining. . .” I have past this time of my life and am now invisible to most people younger than myself. On any given day at any given moment I don’t feel my age and like many people I am my age going on twenty less years. I don’t feel like I’m in my late twenties because they were so fabulous and happy and wonderful. In fact, twenty years ago I was “pretty and miserable.” I believe what leads me to feel like I’m twenty years younger is my wisdom because I am learning what to overlook. I am also learning what it is like to be overlooked.

Whenever the idea of being overlooked depresses me I remember there is freedom in moving through life a stealth being. The first time I was keenly aware of my transparency was on a trip with my family in Greece. One day, I was on my own and aimlessly wandering around Corfu Town: drinking in the sites and completely oblivious to where I was going until I realized it was getting late and I was absolutely irrevocably lost and couldn’t see the port where the huge ship was docked. My first inclination was panic because I couldn’t even read the street signs to tell a cab driver where to pick me up. After a brief thirty second freak out in the middle of a residential sidewalk, I looked down a hill and spied a busier boulevard… Piece of cake, just walk down the hill, hope it isn’t in the wrong damn direction, find a café, pull out my Greek flashcard with my: “I would like a taxi, please” phrase, stumble through a thank you and be on my way to the ship. Halfway towards the boulevard I noticed a group of men, turn the corner and walk up the hill. They were huddled together laughing and joking with one another as they walked. Oh hooray! I could save myself some steps and just show them my flash card for “where’s the port”. But as they got closer, I lost my nerve--the warnings of avoiding men in Greece and Turkey came back to me--and instead I nodded my head and said hello in Greek. They stopped speaking for a second and returned the greeting but didn’t stop or linger to size me up or strike up a conversation in feigned interest of who I was so they could chat up a pretty “girl“. It was like an epiphany! I was free! I could probably go anywhere on the planet unescorted and not be catcalled, wolf whistled or propositioned for anything aside trinkets, tours or drugs. Suddenly the world was a safer place. I pulled myself up to my full height and strode down the hill towards the boulevard. The street was as I expected, busy and peopled with all sorts of locals and tourists. On the street corner, I saw a group of obviously annoyed lovely young blonde women trying to politely extract themselves from the attentions of two considerably older Greek men. I wanted to laugh and point, mocking their dilemma with a victorious: “I‘m here all by myself and no one is annoying me! So put that in your nubile blonde pipe and smoke it chica!” I didn’t say anything but I did catch the eye of one and gave her a sad and empathetic half smile. Now, after remembering and savoring this poem, I would assure them the upside of aging was “moving from Cheer to Joy, from Joy to All”.

(if anyone knows the name of this photo please let me know, I found it openstock)

Forty-seven Going on Twelve

Aren’t I cute? That was taken on my sixth birthday when it was exciting to be another year older. As a suburban child with a Cleaveresque mom we of course had birthday parties. They weren’t lavish pony, clown, and magician affairs, but rowdy backyard parties. Mom thought them out, we always had interesting games to play, I can’t’ remember if we had projects and crafts (like at my boys’ parties). Of course we had cake. Duncan Hines. My favorite birthday cake is German Chocolate. I haven’t had one in years because my favorite favorite birthday dessert is pie. Peach pie.


The bigger digits started freaking me out when I turned 35. (If you thought last weeks crisis was ridiculous, you should have seen me at 35!) In some ways I welcome my birthday. It’s a chance to get to do what I want to do. Plus people give you presents. And they sing to you. This is a fine thing as long as it isn’t in a restaurant amongst strangers.




One of my most amusing memories is the boys’ grandpa Francis 90th birthday celebration. We were at the Olive Garden and the waiter overheard us talking about this auspicious occasion. So what does he do but gather together the wait staff and imprison us at our table singing that highly copyrighted song. I looked over at Francis and he was mortified; The Beav who was all of three years wanted to crawl under the table as did the rest of us. Seven year old Wally looks at Ward and me, daggers in his eyes: “If you ever do this to me, I’ll hurt you.” “No prob son. I don’t like drawing attention to myself.”

That‘s me at 20 and I loved drawing attention to myself. My excuse on my birthday was I couldn’t help myself, after all I was drunk and Adam Ant was playing on the jukebox; that table was begging me to dance on it. Besides, it was my birthday. This is the only reason I wasn’t asked to leave the bar-without-the-cabaret-license. And I was hot.

Speaking of drunken birthday celebrations: When I turned 41, I spent my birthday on this beach . (picture from gohawaii.com) The whole nude thing necessitated the copious amounts of alcohol I consumed that day. But what a hoot! All the people with the pretty bodies were covered up and all the not so pretty bodies, nude. Isn’t that the way it goes? My friend had this awesome beer opener, ever time you popped a top a voice jovially encouraged you: “Oh yeah! Time for a beer!”

Another memorable birthday was my eighteenth. I had this massive thing for Johnny Mathis (image: newlog.com) and he was on tour that spring. My boyfriend at the time was so smitten with me he actually took me to a Johnny Mathis concert! What a great evening. What a dear man. I’ve been looking for this guy for years just so I could tell him his gift became the litmus test for how much you really love me.

I love being the princess…but... sometimes it doesn't always work out that way. I met the boy who handed me my first broken heart, on my sixteenth birthday. My mother threw a party for me and he came with his sister. Funny, as I was looking through pictures for blog images, I found his. I also found the picture of the girl he left me for,too. I had a WTF moment and then without thinking shredded them. It felt great. A good birthday gift to myself.

I made resolutions (which I am happy to say I’m keeping!) this January so I have formulated three goals to reach by next March:
1. Weight what I did in 1993
2. Certified in my nursing specialty
3. Ready to pitch the novel to an agent

Looks like a busy year for me! I’m slated to have a happy happy birthday this weekend. I‘m not sure what The Girl has planned but I know it will be fun! Assuredly it won’t be Maui, or a massive party in the back yard with balloons and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, and thankfully not a drunken night in a bar. It will be filled with laughter and people I adore.

A Pity Party In Self Importantville

Last week was a busy week for me. Between working on tedious nursing research projects and shepherding The Beav from one place to another, I was having a midlife pity party. Not the most productive way to spend my time; if I had any sense it could have been a midlife crisis and I would be sporting a new pair of Jimmy Choos or a driving a new car or driving a new car in a pair of Jimmy Choos. Some premenopausal women have hot flashes, insomnia or memory issues but not me. Nope. I have crying jags. Better yet I have--according to a dear friend--existential crisis’.

All of this was precipitated by catching a glimpse of people I went to school with thirty years ago, messing with my shaky self confidence and tottering self esteem. Those beautiful girls still look the same. Perfect hair, perfect faces, perfect teeth. Perfect. And don’t get me started on how gracefully the men have aged.

Going to school in North Texas during the 1970’s was almost Hell for me because at almost six feet tall, leggy (not in a good way) skinny, with scraggly thin hair and glasses I was the antithesis of the ideal: 5'5, an over abundance of fluffy hair and the body of a goddess. Fortunately, I found a niche at school and all in all had a lot of fun as a girl. But last week you would have thought I was the school’s whipping girl, always alone, too weird for friends. So weird even the teachers made fun of her. I probably was too weird for friends but luckily my friends didn’t realize it. (Maybe they did and they were just being altruistic and kind…hmmmm) But because I am terribly shallow, the adolescent experience of being average looking left a little scab on my psyche. So I took the opportunity last week to pick at the tiny scratch until it was a big festering, oozy wound. Given the tearful email I sent to Oldest Friend and the phone call I made to Best Gay Boyfriend, you would have thought my life was over because those Texas Women are still drop dead gorgeous, thin with Pilate's bodies and from what I can tell wildly successful and happy. In fact, I text messaged one of my --wildly successful, gorgeous and happened-to-be-vacationing-in-Paris--friends from high school:

“ When r u home? Feeling antifabulous surrounded by the beautiful peeps from 1979. Im the only 1 old and fat. The rest of u are beautiful! Oxo, ugly betty[*]. Srsly if u txt me u hkd up w/ jdepp I will cry myself 2 sleep.”

I think that text message just raised the bar for pathetic, don’t you?

But wait, there’s more: OF is farmed out to New Zealand because the state of academics in US is so piss poor English professors must outsource themselves, and their families, to island nations all the way around and upside down from the US. OF is mostly miserable, she can’t find a job, not too fond of the very expensive NZ and feels removed from the rest of her family. But because she is my OF she doesn’t tell me:

“Get. A. Fucking. Life. Please! Email me with real problems rather than worrying about the wrinkles on your forehead, you too short hair and trying to find new glasses that don‘t make you look like a bull dyke gym teacher.”

(she would use the word “fuck” in that context. Years ago, I had to turn the Net Nanny off because it wouldn’t allow me to read her emails) What we did have was an engaging exchange discussing how brutal our culture is on older women. OF was funny and sweet with her reassurances that I would not allow myself to devolve into Blanche Dubois; laying around and crying about all I have lost. If I'm going to dissolve into a dysfunctional middle aged woman, I think Little Edie is a much more interesting choice.

And who better to call when you are having an ugly and/or fat day than your Best Gay Boyfriend (BGB)? I sniveled and sniffed my way through the whole story about feeling fat, old and ugly, never bothering to ask him how he was doing. BGB is such a sage, this is what he said and he said it because he knows where I live: Self Importantville:

”Oh dear, you are having an existential crisis! There isn’t anything I can say or do to make this better, is there?”

Au contraire BGB: you just made it sound so important and meaningful! I’m not having a hormonal breakdown! Or the most facile person on the planet. No no no no no no! I’m having an existential crisis. Emphasis on the “crisis”. I felt infinitely better after talking to BGB. He turned my frown upside down into a crisis! That he was kind and supportive speaks volumes for my choice of BGBs, especially since the last thing he wanted to listen to was some middle-aged woman nattering on about her lost looks. As we were talking, BGB was multitasking and in the midst of winnowing out most of his worldly possessions trying to decide what he could live without in order to preserve a roof over his head. A day or so later, I winced when I thought about my emotional conversation with him. I felt like Paris Hilton, walking up to this woman : “Um, does this bag clash with my shoes?”

Fortunately, my existential crisis ended after twenty-four hours of self flagellation and carb consumption. It also helped to make an appointment with Nurse Poison for some Botox. A birthday present to my loved ones so they don’t have to hear whining about the lines etched over my face me.

What really shut the party down was when an old friend called and left me a message that started: “Hello beautiful. . .”

Because I am shallow like that.




*For the record, I thinkAmerica Ferrera is hot and Ugly Betty is adorable.